


Being Dead Won't Stop These Shitty Jokes

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Disabled Character, F/F, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So much shit is about to go DOWN, welcome to hell™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: An AU where John is a ghost, Karkat and Dave are boyfriends, and all three are trying to share the same studio apartment in a sleepy little town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, USA. (At least there's a Target in Bumfuck Nowhere.)Shenanigans, ghostly pranks, outrageous banter, and large amounts of fluff within.





	1. It's not you...

**Author's Note:**

> It's my own special brand of Hell™
> 
> You can totes just turn off styling, by the way. I just like monospace fonts they're so nice.

The story begins with two individuals. The unlikeliest of pairs. The oddest of combinations. You get the point. They're people no one would have ever put together—the flashy coolkid and the debate team's Master Screamer—and they're in this shitty apartment in what we'll call Bumfuck Nowhere, USA. They're unofficially married, officially boyfriends (at least according to Facebook), and living together in a cheap studio apartment. It's 3:00 AM, and both of them are in the same bed. Just prior to the beginning of our tale, they were both asleep, dreaming blissful fantasies of whatever sort of shit floats their respective boats. Now, though, they're both awake. They're both vaguely aware of their surroundings, mildly in tune with reality, and more than a little bit groggy.

One of these individuals is Karkat Vantas, the Master Screamer of his high school debate team. He's a short, stocky guy. The son of Indian immigrants, both of whom are doctors. One's a neurosurgeon, the other's a dentist. He's a freelance artist. The apple might not often fall far from the tree, but, when it does, it flies. Dark brown skin; thick, messy black hair; grey eyes, which often seem to dig into someone until there's a poignant sense of discomfort in the air; and bushy black brows.

The other, by process of elimination, is the coolkid. Dave Strider. Pale skin, reddish-brown eyes, and finely maintained golden-blond hair. By this point, he's been shoved from his spot in bed. From what he often refers to as a vantage point "level with everyone's crotch," he fumbles through the apartment. The wheels of his chair, which just so happens to be a gaudy bright red, entangle everything he runs over. Obscenities stream from his mouth like water from a waterfall.

"Stop playing that goddamned music," complains Karkat, covering his head with his pillow, "You know I fucking hate Chopin. You're just doing this to be a dick."

"For once, I'm not playing it," Dave groans as he finally finds his phone. It's fallen off of the desk, and he's not about to try and lean over to get it. Instead, he tugs on the charger cord until it's within reach. Then, he flicks on the light. He shines the beam back and forth, squinting in the darkness to try and find the source of the noise. "I was kind of enjoying you _not_ kneeing me in the crotch for once."

"You don't even know I'm doing it, Strider," quips Karkat, his head still buried beneath cheap Target pillows and faded bedclothes.

"It's still annoying to wake up and see your knee digging into that general area." As if it will somehow get his point across, he adds an indignant huff. When he speaks again, it's a distinctive whine, " _Stop harassing me,_ " he says, drawing out the ending vowel.

Karkat merely groans. He rolls over and presses the pillows even closer to his ears as the music swells. " _This isn't funny, Strider._ "

"I'm not  _trying_ to be funny. I want to sleep as much as you do, jerk-ass." Another huff. A beat. The light's beam lowers, focusing on the floor by his feet. "You're still in bed, right?"

"No," comes a facetious answer, "I'm making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"So… You  _didn't_ touch my shoulder?" Dave pauses. He flicks off the light on his phone and rubs the back of his neck as he continues, "I mean… I know I'm ripped, but you don't need to feel up my muscles every…" Any further dialogue is cut off by the sound of a calamitous crash. It ends with Dave beneath his own chair, which has managed to land on top of him like an awkward turtle shell.

Karkat reacts immediately, and is there to offer some reluctant aid within seconds. "What? Did you think about your fucking ugly little ego again?" As he speaks, he extends his hand towards his startled boyfriend.

Dave refuses. After righting himself, he offers an explanation that seems too strange to be true. "There was this guy. Black hair, rectangular glasses, stupid smile…" Again, he pauses. He snickers to himself and elbows Karkat in the side. "Kind of cute, really."

"He's an  _intruder_ , Strider. There's nothing cute about someone who breaks into our fucking apartment," stammers Karkat. "What the actual—" Realization brings the speech to a grinding halt. "There's no one else in here besides us?"

Having fully recovered from his shock, Dave offers a nonchalant shrug. "Well, the ghost of one total hottie is in here with us. You might want to start packing your bags now, Karkat."

Now, it's Karkat's turn to huff. He folds his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. Deep down, he's grateful for the fact that his skin tone makes blushing something that only he knows about. "You can't date a ghost, Strider. It's  _fucking dead_. That's necrophilia."

"My morals are dead," Dave shrugs. "My point is that we've got a Chopin-loving, piano-playing, night owl cutie haunting our apartment, and I'm all for getting to know all about it. What about you?" As if this is something that's a common conversational point, Dave turns away. He wanders over to the fridge, where he proceeds to look for anything worthy of eating.

"I'm not doing any of that Ouija bullshit," Karkat jumps in. His voice is filled with conviction. He means what he says; he's not about to get himself balls deep in a paranormal tragedy. "If you want to go charging headfirst into a possession or demonic creep show, go right on ahead. I don't give a shit."

"Aw. You  _totally_ give a shit. You'd be so fuckin' wrecked if I died at the hands of Beelzebub or something like that."

"Yeah. And your eulogy would just be me calling out all the weird bullshit you've done. Like this."

At this point, Dave emerges from the fridge. He's already halfway through a two-day-old club sandwich. "Hm? Oh. Whatever," he mutters through a mouthful of leftovers, "I'm going to figure out who this cutie is. Take it or leave it."

Karkat rolls his eyes. He turns his back on Dave. However, after a few minutes, he finds it impossible to keep up with the godawful charade. "Fine. I'm going to trust your claim that he's one one slamming piece of ethereal ass."

"And why would I lie about something as sacred as the sexiness of a ghost?"

"Who fucking knows?" Karkat shrugs. "My point is that I'll kick your ass if you're lying to me."

"Deal, loser." A michievous smile crosses Dave's face. He taps out a note on his phone. "We'll start looking into it tomorrow. But I'm fucking stuffed and fucking tired, so I'm going back to sleep."

As his boyfriend rushes back towards the bed, Karkat stumbles forwards. "Don't you dare take my spot, Strider!"

"Don't see your name on it," Dave hums from his newfound perch on Karkat's side of the bed. "G'night, jackass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, concerns, suggestions, and point out my typos are all appreciated and i have no idea where this will go i have so many unfinished fics so who fucking knows any more


	2. It's me!

Rose Lalonde is everything her cousin isn't. She's poised, confident, and she has better taste in fashion. Not that it takes much to pass that last point.

In his plaid shirt with a black suit jacket thrown over top, it's apparent that Dave isn't very fashion forward. In fact, as Karkat often says, he's not even fashion backwards. He's just somewhere far outside the reaches of standard fashion. And it's neither apparent bor particularly important whether this is all good or bad.

What is important is that Rose has been pensively stirring her cup of coffee for the past ten minutes, and only now does she bother to speak. "It's all certainly intriguing," she sighs. "It's a mystery, I suppose. Something to solve."

"Well thanks for pointing out the fucking obvious," grumbles Dave. He breathes a huff of frustration and jabs his teaspoon into his coffee, which subsequently splashes all over his lap. He grumbles again, wipes off a minuscule amount amount with a cheap paper towel, and runs his fingers through his hair. "This is absolute bullshit. I just want to see the cute ghost."

"You're a creepy asshole," Karkat mutters from across the table.

"And you're an absolute jerk, but we don't have to go around pointing that out to everyone and their motherfucking cat, do we?" With this, Dave offers a cocky smile. He sips his coffee, frowns, and gathers his things. "I can see we're not getting any help from here, so I'm packing my bags and going home."

Now, Rose grins. She hums innocently, "You never had any bags, dear cousin."

"Fuckin bite me," Dave growls. Despite his tone of voice, the comment is playful. To outside observers, this might not be obvious. Rose knows, though, and so does Karkat. That these two individuals know this is the only thing of any important to Dave. Beyond that, even if she didn't, he'd still leave; he's got some hot ethereal booty to catch.

 

 

Having met the two living occupants of the abode, it's necessary that we examine the third occupant. The one who just so happens to be not-so-close-to-living-as-we-would-define-it. His name is John Egbert.

In life, he was a short man. The son of a Japanese-American café owner and an all-southern American barista.

Yes, his mother worked for his father. When they married, though, they both worked together as owners.

Not that these paltry personal details matter. What's important is the fact that he was a rising pianist. He'd had himself nipples deep in hefty concerts and gig agreements. He was playing at three local bars a night and doing a twice-a-month odd job as a performer for the local gymnastics group. Of course, he wasn't a gymnast. He was the musical accompaniment.

His death was untimely and tragic, as most deaths are. And he's not too keen on divulging the details.

What he is willing to say is that he's been haunting the place for a solid twenty years. He's seen occupants drift in and out like vagrant monks, but he's yet to have any as interesting as these two nutjobs. Dave and Karkat. That's as much as he knows.

Well, now, he knows that the latter is  _not_ a fan of Chopin. He's also learned that the former actually wears an exclusively pink lineup of briefs, presumably from a laundry mishap.

There are also some things that he doesn't "know," per se, but can easily assume.

John can say much more about the shorter, tanner man than his pale counterpart. From the books under his side of the bed, it's safe to say that he's a big fan of romance. He seems particularly fond of comedies. He has a fondness for tacky knickknacks, and seems to collect an assortment of kitschy porcelain crabs. The supplies on his shelf in the bathroom suggest that he gels his hair in the mornings; not that doing so tames his mop of wild black in any way, shape, or form. A lack of a razor speaks to the fact that he doesn't shave, and he's partial towards flowery scents.

Now, the pale one… John can't say much about him. He's got a thing for music, shades, and crappy films. That's about all that's obvious beyond his love for some sort of outrageous so-called Lumberjack Manhood shampoo. Of the two, this is the man who interests John the most. Why wouldn't he? He's the perfect mysterious tenant. An odd face in a sea of come-and-go forgettable drifters.

Right now, the two are nowhere to be found. The shouting one had mentioned something about getting some coffee as he dragged off the stupidly stoic one.

So, John is using his time wisely. That's to say that he's blatantly snooping around. If he's going to live with these two for however long they're staying, he might as well know something about them.

With all of his knowledge of the angry, tan one, John forgoes looking into his life. It's a more efficient use of time. Go for the less obvious of the pair.

Rummaging through the man's pastel pink underwear drawer like an absolute creep yields a few clues about his life. His name is Dave Strider. He's twenty-three. He has a speeding ticket—or, at least, he's received one recently. He owns a respectable collection of semi-rare Pokémon cards. And, above all of this, he has a degree in music.

Clearly, this Dave guy is the way to go when it comes to finding a friend. It won't be easy. Trying to convince living tenants to befriend a semi-corporeal entity isn't the easiest task. In fact, it's a rather hard one. John, however, is a stubborn one. If anything, he'll keep at it until Dave and Karkat both flee from the building with fresh shit in their pants and ghost stories to tell around the fires of Camp Trauma.


	3. But, maybe…

"You're going to get us killed," shrieks Karkat from his spot in the passenger side seat of Dave's modified car. "You'd think someone would learn their lesson after nearly fucking dying in the same goddamned type of car."

A whistle of disinterest. Dave pushes down on the lever just behind the stick to control the windshield wipers. The car's engine purrs as the speed increases. "Grab life by the balls, Vantas."

A muffled yelp of shock. A sharp turn ends up slamming Karkat's shoulder against the door. "That's it," he says in the most over-dramatic way possible, "I'm going to die. Maybe putting up with you was enough to release my shitty little self from this universe. At the very fucking least, I don't want to be reincarnated as a plague rat."

"You're being so fuckin' ridiculous," snickers Dave. "Look! We're almost home. Just past this light and—" He's cut off mid-sentence by the color changing from yellow to red. He pulls on the lever with all of his might, and ends up thumping against the steering wheel as the car screeches to a halt. "Ow." He punctuates the series of events.

For Karkat, it's the cherry on top of a sundae of bad decisions. "That's what you get, you reckless twit." As if it will somehow prove his point, he crosses his arms. "I patiently await the day I get a call from the repo lot for your car."

"That's not how it works." Dave's response is more of an indignant huff than a real sentence. He runs his fingers through his hair and picks at the tears in his protective wheelchair gloves as he considers his husband's comment. "You're just mad that you got flipped off by a ninety-year-old woman for going too slow that one time."

I suppose the point is clear.

This back and forth bickering continues for a while. It's persists even as Dave unlocks the apartment door and begins to organize the spoils of the weekly grocery run. It persists as the dairy products and grains are put in their proper spots.

By the time the groceries are all put away, however, the bickering has devolved into a heap of ridiculous jokes and giggles.

"So, what?" Karkat proposes a good ways into the Festival of Grown Men Acting Like Five Year Olds, "You're dumping me for the sexy ghost?"

Through his laughter, Dave somehow manages to make himself sound somewhat respectable. "That ghost is something I would tap faster than an actual tap. An alcohol tap."

"I know what a tap is," Karkat mutters.

"Wow. Someone's grouchy." A disembodied voice. As if on cue, there's a rumble of thunder from outside. It's quiet and distant, much like the voice.

"I agree with the ghost," Dave chimes in.

Again, as if on cue, a figure appears. See-through and light blue against a sea of neutral browns and vivid reds. A short man with messy hair and rectangular glasses. His smirk makes a pair of dimples obvious as the fact that he's materialized in front of two shocked apartment dwellers.

Of the two, Dave is the first to recover from his shock. "See, jackass, I told you he was cute."

After a great deal of stammering, Karkat forces forth a reply. "What the actual fuck?"

"Yeah," Dave shrugs, "Now we can all hang out together and drink beer and watch movies and get it on and shit."

"Wow. I'm a ghost, and I'm calling 'creep zone' on that." With this, the blue figure disappears. There's no dramatic fading or sudden flash. It's simply there, and then it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, and **suggestions** are super appreciated! thanks for reading! i'm trying to start up selling my art, so i'm sorry i don't update as much. also college. college is big butt.


	4. Nah. It's you.

"And where the  _fuck_ did you hear that putting out bait attracts ghosts?" Karkat groans. He covers his eyes with his hands, as if this will somehow prevent him from being aware of the bullshit occurring in front of him. "These are Skittles." He groans again. This time, it's louder. It carries with it the frustration of the entire world. (Or, at the very least, it carries the frustration of Karkat's entire world.) "We're trying to catch a ghost, not goddamned  _ET_ , you fucking piss-stain. What the fucking—?" He stops, shakes his head, and shrugs in defeat. "Fuck it. I give up. Do whatever. But I'm not cleaning up after you."

"This is a perfectly solid way to rope in some hot ghost ass," shoots back Dave. "Speaking of which…" Here, he pauses. He dumps the remaining contents of the packet onto the floor in a scattered pile at his feet. "Trust me," he says, his voice about as reassuring as someone trying to reassure you that you'll only be alive long enough to see the sun explode before you're engulfed in the apocalyptic aftermath. "What?" he adds to his commentary. As if it's the yardstick in the hands of a slap-happy nun, Dave wags the now-empty bag of Skittles in the air. "You think  _your_ idea is any better? I'm sure this ghost is the most adept amateur radio enthusiast ever.  _Everyone_ knows that fucking with radios was what all the cool 90's kids were doing."

Folding his arms across his chest, Karkat lets forth a sharp sigh. He rolls his eyes and furrows his brows. "And how do  _you_ know that this ghost is from the 90's?" To emphasize his point, Karkat jabs a finger in Dave's direction.

Backing away from the aggressive gesture, Dave offers a calm reply. "Because he just looks so fuckin' 90's, dude. He couldn't be any more 90's if he was carrying around a copy of a Tony Hawk game or something." Seeing the raised brow this commentary elicits from his boyfriend, Dave backtracks. "You know," he clarifies,"One of those weird skating games that became their own fucking genre in the 90's and 2000's?"

"Well, you're almost right." A disembodied voice catches both men off guard.

Karkat sprints into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him. A quiet click indicates that he's locked the door.

Dave, however, reacts with little more than a huff of surprise. "That's it? A floating voice trick?" He scoffs. "Is that all you've got?" He pushes himself up and forwards, situating himself a bit more forwards in his chair than before. "I'll fight you. Just for shits an giggles, too."

"Really?" The voice seems to come from one specific point. A hazy mist appears, merges, and forms the figure from before. A man with wild black hair and rectangular glasses. He laughs, and it's a graceless series of snorts and wheezes. "You can't punch a ghost, asshole." Despite his words, he's smiling. Clearly, he's amused by this exchange. "And about before… I don't even like beer. Actually, I hate it."

"Ain't that just a shame," whistles Dave. "Look, buddy, I'm trying to extend an offer of good-fuckin-will to your ghostly ass. I'm not calling a priest or anything, so why don't we all try to get along and be happy little pumpkins in this low-price apartment complex pumpkin patch?" He relaxes, allowing his back to flop against the backrest of his wheelchair. "We can at least try a trial run, right?"

"A trial run?" John's reply is understandably incredulous.

"Yeah!" Dave smirks. He folds his arms across his chest and quirks his brow. "Yeah," he repeats, "It's a trial run. We try getting along instead of murdering each other. If it doesn't work out, I'll be forced to banish your cute paranormal ass to the hell from which you came."

"I came from Washington?" John frowns. "The state. Not the district," he further clarifies. "This plan doesn't sound too good on my part, but it's not like I can do much about it."

"Exactly!" There's a long, slow nod. Dave smiles and pushes forwards a bit. "So, we have a deal?" He's perfectly aware of what he's doing. Beyond that, he honestly doesn't plan on getting rid of this ghostly entity. In fact, he's willing to do whatever it takes to make this work out. After all, having a friendly ghost in our house tends to make for some hella discussion around the dinner table.

And, maybe, the ghost knows this as he reluctantly agrees. "Yeah," he sighs, "Whatever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same stuff. comments, feedback, and suggestions are appreciated. I typed this on my phone. Typos abound. I enjoy eating scallops.


End file.
